Clarice nodded. Her dark eyes barely flickered as she accessed the information. “Yvette Dushane, female. Occupation: data tech. Was implicated in organizing resistance during Clemenceau’s supervision. She is in her fifties, arrived what they call Third Ship. Husband: Hansen Dushane, killed by skewer. Yvette had not remarried as of Turalon’s last spacing. Her last proficiency score, taken twenty-nine years ago, was sixty-two. No children of record. Last known activity included administration of titles and deeds after Board Supervisor Aguila granted the transfer in exchange for financial compensation.”

Falise looked up as Ednund entered the room—a covered plate and freefall cup on a towel-covered tray. She called him her “blond Adonis” for his two-meter-tall, perfectly formed body. With his alabaster-white skin, his golden curly hair, chiseled jaw, and sparkling eyes, he made a striking valet. She’d designed him as the perfect complement to Clarice. His light to Clarice’s dark, his violence and action in contrast to her intelligence and evaluation. Given their duties, both had been trained in social skills, etiquette, dancing, sexual excellence, athletics, the arts, and of course, espionage.

Ednund was dressed professionally, wearing synthalac trousers that shimmered with each step and a white V-cut blouse with black piping and creamy white panels that rose high over each shoulder. Silk slippers clad his feet. He greeted her with a smile that displayed perfect teeth. “I brought you the evening fare, my lady. Each serving taken by myself from the common mess to ensure its safety.”

“More green goo?” Falise asked as Ednund folded out the stand and set the tray within reach of her bed.

“Afraid so.” Ednund waved around at the featureless sialon room. “No less dreary than this. Now, with escape coming in but days, we can once again talk about what a prison this is.”

Falise pointed to the scar in the ceiling. “They took out a wall, you’ll recall. This supposedly spacious eighteen-square-meter opulence was originally two living quarters. Down on the Transportee Deck, they ‘hot bunk.’ Rotate bed space. Sleep in shifts.” She made a dismissive gesture. “I can’t imagine what that kind of existence is all about.”

“Nor can we, Lady,” Clarice told her. “However, from my study, and from the reports made by the returnees from Turalon’s last transit from Capella III, we had best not be raising our hopes for lodging in Port Authority.”

Falise tapped at her chin, gaze on the holo frozen before her. “Why land us at Port Authority? What is Kalico trying to prove? She has Corporate Mine, Southern Diggings, and the Maritime Unit must have a community somewhere. Why put us down in the midst of a bunch of lunatic barbarians? This reeks of some subtle political slight that I can’t fathom.”

Ednund set the tray beside her and indicated the foot of the bed. “May I?”